


The Cameo

by JeanGraham



Category: Dark Shadows (1966)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 08:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanGraham/pseuds/JeanGraham
Summary: Angelique's ghost haunts the Old House, but so do some of her former foes.





	The Cameo

See all of my fanfic and links to my pro fiction at <http://jeangraham.20m.com.>

THE CAMEO - - by Jean Graham   


Gwen Stearns picked up a ten inch stack of old books and gently blew dust from the leather bindings. Five feet away across the attic room, David Collins sneezed.

"Sorry," Gwen apologized.

He laughed, and rubbed his nose. "Don't be. When I was little, I used to half live up here. Hiding and prowling through all the family skeletons. You should have seen me sneeze then."

Gwen smiled. "Your father's told me what an adventuresome little boy you used to be."

"Yeah? Well he shouldn't put that in the past tense." David pushed an oversized crate aside and sat down. Dim sunlight filtered in behind him through the dusty panes of the single window. "Part of me is still eleven years old and I'm not a bit ashamed to admit it."

"I know how you feel," Gwen said. "I guess there's a kid in all of us somewhere."

"You know, maybe that's why I have a hard time figuring why anyone would want to catalogue all this dusty old stuff. I mean, the Collinses are notorious junk collectors from way back. This could take forever!"

Gwen leafed through one of the books, caressing age-worn pages. "More like a year," she told him. "By Your Aunt Elizabeth's estimation."

He shrugged. "It still seems like more work than it's worth to me."

"Well your aunt doesn't think so. That's why she hired me. And all this dusty old stuff, as you call it, is part of the Collins family history. It should be catalogued."

"Yeah..." Scowling, David plucked a wire object from the depths of the crate he'd moved. "You just never know when you might need a rusty hundred-year-old tennis racket."

"That's a carpet-beater, you nut."

"A carpet what?"

"Never mind." Gwen made an entry in her notebook, put the stack of books aside and picked up another. With the light in the window failing fast, the only real illumination was coming from the portable camping lantern they'd brought to the attic with them. "This job might have been made a little easier," Gwen complained lightly, "if your family had wired the attic for electricity when they converted the rest of the house."

"Oh now really." David expressed mock disdain. What fun would that be? No self-respecting ghost would haunt an attic with electric lights in it!"

"David..."

He grinned impishly. "What's the matter. You don't believe in ghosts?"

"Let's just say that I'm skeptical."

"Well stick around here a while. You won't be."

"You sound awfully sure of that."

"I grew up in this house, remember? Some of my best friends were ghosts!"

Gwen didn't really believe him, yet she had the uncomfortable feeling he wasn't kidding. Moments later, a soft knock at the door broke the silence that had fallen between them.

"I hope I'm not intruding."

Gwen turned to find that the voice belonged to a distinguished dark-haired man with a cape and wolf's head cane. His features were virtually identical with those of an ancestral portrait in the foyer downstairs: the portrait of Barnabas Collins.

"You aren't," David said in answer to the question. Then he made introductions. "Gwen Stearns, this is my cousin Barnabas."

Gwen couldn't hide her surprise. "Really?" she said. "A family face and family name?"

Barnabas Collins smiled and took her hand in an old world greeting. "The resemblance is frequently commented upon."

Gwen was staring in spite of herself. "I'm not surprised."

"I'd heard that Elizabeth was hiring a historian to catalogue the family treasures," he said pleasantly. "So naturally I felt I had to come and meet you."

"Barnabas is our resident expert on the family history," David explained. "Any of these white elephants you don't recognize -- just ask him. In fact if you really want to see antiques, have him show you the attics in the Old House some time."

Gwen's interest was peaked. "I think I'd like that."

"And I'd be delighted," Barnabas said. "In fact, that was one of the reasons for my visit. I confess I was hoping to steal you away for a few minutes, to show you the Old House."

David got up and brushed the dust from his clothes. "Cousin Barnabas, your timing, as usual, is perfect. I was just about to beg off to go down and make some phone calls. So I'll leave our guest in your capable hands."

"With pleasure." Barnabas made a welcoming gesture toward the door, and Gwen, feeling just a trifle apprehensive, gathered her notebooks and went on out just ahead of him. David retrieved the lantern and brought up the rear.

The Old House, Gwen found, was the fulfillment of any historian's dream. A home restored to the grandeur of the 18th century, and authentic in every respect, right down to the working fireplaces, hand-woven carpets and tiered candleabras. Stepping in the front door was like walking through a time portal.

"I've always found the thought of electric lights in this house rather repugnant, I'm afraid," Barnabas explained as he led her through the downstairs rooms. "Perhaps I'm far too much the romantic, but I believe these rooms were meant to be seen by candlelight. Anything else would be quite inappropriate."

"I'm sure you're right. Your restoration work is incredible, Mr. Collins. I'm impressed."

"Barnabas," he corrected gently. "And please, let me show you the upper floors."

They'd started up the stairs when a figure stepped suddenly out of the shadows on the landing above. Gwen started, nearly convinced she was seeing one of David's ghosts. But the "spirit" flashed them a friendly smile and said, "Hello there. Sorry to startle your guest, Cousin. I just stopped by to say hello. Didn't know you were out."

Barnabas, reaching the landing along with Gwen, said "This young woman is Collinwood's new historian. Gwen Stearns, this is Quentin Collins."

"Charmed," Quentin said, and took her hand as Barnabas had done earlier.

Gwen nodded. "Yours is another name I recognize from the family histories."

His smile was infectious. "Yes, it has been popular. There've been at least three of me that I know of." Barnabas gave him a warning look, but Quentin seemed oblivious to it. "Mind if I prowl the upper floors with you?"

"Are you a history buff too?" Gwen asked.

He laughed. "Oh, I live and breathe it. Besides, don't you know that putting that question to a Collins is a little like asking a bird if it flies?"

"Really Quentin," Barnabas chided. "This is hardly the proper time for flippancy." To Gwen, he added, "Shall we continue the tour?"

"Please."

The three of them explored the upper floor of the beautiful old house, and Gwen was captivated with Barnabas' running dialogue about the former occupants of each and every room. Here, Jeremiah Collins had once lived. And in the next room, the lovely Josette. And in this one, the spinster Abigail aunt to the original Barnabas Collins. Soon, they had passed through every room on the floor except for one, the door to which remained locked. Barnabas had passed it by twice.

Gwen felt compelled to ask why.

There was a hint of uneasiness in his answer. "I'm afraid that's the one room I never had restored," he said. "Call it an eccentricity. I never cared for it very much. It's a grim, unfriendly sort of room."

"Whose was it?"

Quentin and his cousin exchanged knowing looks, giving Gwen the impression that she was treading on thin ice.

"No one of any importance," Barnabas said. "A servant's room. Altogether ordinary."

Without knowing why, Gwen felt a sudden overwhelming desire to see what was beyond the door. "May we go inside? Please -- I'd really like to see it."

Barnabas looked acutely uncomfortable. "Well I don't know..."

"Oh please. This house is so beautiful, I feel as though missing any part of it would be almost like... like a sin against history."

Abruptly, Barnabas' resistance seemed to melt. ''Very well," he conceded, and took a lighted candelabra from a nearby hall table. "Since you put it that way..."

Quentin looked nonplussed as his cousin unlocked the ancient door. "I hardly call missing the servant's quarters a sin against history," he remarked. "Now some of the servants themselves, on the other hand..."

"There's really very little to see," Barnabas said, overrunning Quentin's idle chatter. "The room's been locked ever since I took up residence -- nearly 20 years. It hasn't been occupied in nearly 200."

Gwen stepped into the room behind him, and a strange, warm sensation of familiarity overtook her, as though she had crossed that threshold a thousand times before. It was a simple, rustic room with wood and brick walls, a single window, and a fireplace dominating the wall that faced the door. Beneath the musty patina of cobwebs and dust, a decaying washstand still held its china bowl and pitcher beside the bed's wooden frame. The flicker of Barnabas' candles revealed a spinning wheel, its spokes well-laced with spider webs, sitting long-forgotten in the corner.

"As you see," Barnabas said rather coldly, "there is nothing of much interest here."

Gwen disagreed. "It's a simple room, but a charming one all the same. What a shame not to restore it too. She lived here, after all."

Barnabas stared at her, clearly dismayed at her strange statement. "I beg your pardon?" he asked politely.

Gwen shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I just had the oddest feeling..."

"Then perhaps it's best that we go now."

"Oh no. Please, not just yet." Gwen walked to the small, plain bureau that stood beside the fireplace, aware of her dim reflection in the age-worn mirror that crowned it. Still feeling the odd sensation of familiarity, she slowly pulled open the middle drawer and reached through remnants of broken webbing to remove a stack of yellowed linen. Beneath that, atop a decayed pillow of crumbling satin, she found what she had somehow known would be there: a delicate cameo brooch with the likeness of a beautiful woman set against an onyx background.

Barnabas paled when she lifted it from the drawer. "Where did you get that?" he gasped.

Gwen stroked the piece of jewelry with a loving hand. "She was a very lovely woman, don't you think?"

He recoiled slightly when she held the brooch out to him. "No," he said curtly. "I'm afraid I don't."

"Uh., Barnabas..." Quentin touched his cousin's shoulder warningly. "Could I talk to you for a moment -- out in the hall?"

Like a man entranced, Barnabas sat the burning candles down on the bureau and silently followed Quentin out of the room. Gwen was scarcely aware they had gone. She was captivated with her study of the face on the cameo: a strikingly beautiful woman with high cheekbones and large, expressive eyes. From somewhere -- it seemed very far away -- she heard a door close, a latch click... Then she had glanced up, and found the woman from the brooch standing in front of the window. Her blonde hair, grey-blue eyes and floor-length dress were even more stunning than the image on the cameo.

"At last," she said. "At last! Life again. The life I was meant to have."

Gwen took a hesitant step backward. "I.. .don't understand."

"You will, my dear. You will." A cruel, mocking laugh escaped the perfect lips. The ghost -- Gwen was certain now that it was a ghost - - began to walk toward her. "I'll have him back again,"it said. "And this time even he will not know the truth of what has happened here. Because I will be you. And you..."

A tapping at the door interrupted her. Barnabas' voice called softly from the hall. The locked door rattled.

"We must hurry," the ghost intoned. "You must do as I say. Bring the cameo... and come to me."

Despite the fear that had gripped her, Gwen found herself obeying the command. As she approached, the blonde woman smiled prettily, and held out a slender, long-nailed hand.

"That's right. Come to me. Yield to me. You are no longer the person who entered this room. You are Angelique Collins now. _We_ are Angelique."

Some small part of Gwen wanted to cry out, to turn and run from this vision of ghostly beauty. But her feet refused to obey the thought.

Her fingers, still holding the brooch, had nearly met with Angelique's when suddenly, something cold and unyielding intervened. Invisible hands, icy and stiff, grasped Gwen's and pulled them away. She felt herself pushed backward, and at the same time saw the look of abject terror that had formed on Angelique's face.

"No!" Angelique screamed. "You cannot stop me again! You belong in your grave -- I demand that you return to it!"

The pounding on the door became more insistent. Gwen could hear both Barnabas and Quentin calling her name.

"Go back!" Angelique was shouting to the unseen thing before her. "Go back to your grave! And leave me to do what I must do!"

A low, masculine laughter rumbled, disembodied, through the room. As Gwen watched, terrified, a figure began to materialize before the enraged Angelique. It was the figure of a tall man in 18th century clothing-- with his head completely swathed in blood-soaked bandages.

"You will not know this house again," it said menacingly, and began slowly to advance on her. "I was the first victim of the evil you practiced here. But there will be no others. I will see to that."

"No..." Angelique moved backward at his steady approach, her hands upheld as though to push him from her. "Get away! Jeremiah, please! Get away from me!"

"Gwen!!!" Insistent voices shouted from the hall. "Gwen! Open the door! What's happening in there?"

The ghost of Jeremiah laughed again. Its clammy hands reached out to enclose Angelique's white throat, cutting off her scream. He shook her, anger and rage increasing the strength of his grasp. Then he walked, carrying her limp form in front of him, toward the panelled window...

"Please, Gwen!! Answer us! Open the door!"

Glass shattered. Two ghostly figures disappeared from view amid a tangle of wooden cross-pieces and broken shards of dirty glass. A strangled cry was cut short by the hideous sound of flesh and bone impacting on the ground below.

Another crash, then...

Gwen spun around, shocked to find Barnabas and Quentin Collins standing in the splintered ruin of the door.

"What happened?" Barnabas demanded. "What were those sounds?"

Several seconds passed before Gwen could force sound from her mouth. "The... The window..."

As one, the two men stepped to the window, and Gwen found herself blinking in horrified confusion as she turned to look back at it. The glass was intact, untouched, without even a fingerprint to disturb its ancient coating of grime and dust.

"But I don't understand," Gwen said in a voice faint with trepidation. "I saw them. I saw them fall through..."

Quentin struggled with the window's rusted latch, and evoking the screech of hinges long unoiled, forced it out and open onto the chill night air.

"Come and see for yourself," he told her. "There's nothing here. Nothing down below."

Gwen didn't move. She couldn't. Her shoes seemed somehow rooted to the mold-eaten floor boards. Something small and cold slipped, forgotten, through her fingers and fell with a dull thunk into the dust at her feet.

Barnabas Collins came back across the room and knelt to retrieve the cameo. He seemed reluctant at first to touch it. But he closed a determined fist over it, rose, and carried it to the raised brick hearth of the fireplace, where he lay it carefully down again. He gazed at it with open loathing for several moments. Then his hand slipped a rusted iron poker from its wrought iron stand, raised it quickly into the air, and brought it down with a resounding crack on the delicate brooch. It shattered like a fine piece of crystal, sending shards flying out into the room. Barnabas continued to stare at the bent metal frame of the brooch's former mounting . "There will never be an end to her evil," he said emptily. "Never..."

Resolutely, Quentin Collins handed him the candelabra and took Gwen very firmly by the hand before guiding the two of them back out the door.

"Let's get out of here," he said. "I think Barnabas was right. Some rooms are better off left locked."

Gwen didn't answer him. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she was recalling the talk she'd had earlier tonight with David Collins.

"Let's just say that I'm skeptical..." she had told him. And he'd said, "Stick around here a while. You won't be..."

Gwen shuddered, and followed the flickering glow of Barnabas' candles down the creaking Old House stairway.   


The End   
  
=


End file.
